


No Damsels in Distress Here

by shuttermutt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Gen, and his heart grew three sizes that day, descriptions of cuts and blood, emotionally constipated werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuttermutt/pseuds/shuttermutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Then he notices that his shoes are gone. “What the fuck, man? Why would someone take my </i>shoes<i>? Is there no decency left in this world?” They were his favorite chucks, too, goddammit. Doesn’t he lose enough clothing to the wolfy menace on a weekly basis?</i></p>
<p>Or: the one where Stiles totally saves himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Damsels in Distress Here

**Author's Note:**

> Another little thing to help cheer up my darling [mockturtletale](http://mockturtletale.tumblr.com/) during her poopy day. Posted at my insistence because I actually really thought this was quite cute. /vain.
> 
> pre-Derek/Stiles because she wanted the build up to the relationship and I live to oblige.

Stiles wakes up in a slow haze, which is unusual, to say the least. Generally, Stiles is either awake or he isn’t. It’s not some slow slide into awareness. Long-term effects of the medication he still swallows twice daily. He moves to rub his eyes with his palm, try to wake up a bit more, but he finds himself unable.

“The fuck?” he mumbles, jerking his hands. It takes him longer than it really should to realize they’re tied together, above his head, attached to what looks to be the oldest radiator know to man. “Aw, what?” he asks, still not up enough for this bullshit.

He looks around and the details are fuzzy, but he finally picks up that he’s in what looks like a basement. There’s a set of rickety looking stairs leading up to a closed—and with Stiles’ luck, probably locked—door. The sickly light is coming from a bare light bulb that’s covered in filth near the top of the stairs. There’s not even a window to let him know what time of day it is.

“This is the worst,” he says, since there’s no one there to stop him and no one thought to tape his mouth shut. “Why do I always end up in basements? Why me?” Stiles tries to pull at the rope, to see if maybe it’s as old and worn out as everything else in the basement, but of course not. It just causes friction burns. Fuck. “Fuck,” he says out loud, just because why not.

Then he notices that his shoes are gone. “What the fuck, man? Why would someone take my _shoes_? Is there no decency left in this world?” They were his favorite chucks, too, goddammit. Doesn’t he lose enough clothing to the wolfy menace on a weekly basis?

“Balls.”

Stiles looks around since there’s nothing better to do, what with being tied up to a radiator in some creepy torture basement—because when is a basement just a basement in this town? It’s always a torture basement—and sees a small, cracked hand mirror next to the gross washing machine that probably hasn’t been cleaned since it was made. In the 1950s, by the look of it.

“Ugh, this is going to suck,” he grumbles to himself. “Fine, fuck, whatever.” He twists around until his body is facing the washer, legs stretched out and toes seeking. Scott always laughed and made fun of his monkey toes, but screw him, Stiles’ toes _get stuff done_ , okay? He doesn’t see Scott here offering any other option.

He gets his toes around the handle of the mirror and slowly drags it closer to him. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, eyes locked and focused. Once it’s as close to his body as his legs can bend, he slowly lifts, watching as the mirror gets closer and closer to his hands. Finally, he can reach out and grab the handle and let his leg drop back down to the floor.

“Yessss,” he hisses, squirming a bit in a congratulatory wiggle dance. “Who’s the best?” he asks as he starts prying a piece of jagged mirror from the frame. It hurts and it sucks and there’s already blood from where it’s ripping into his fingers, but priorities. In-tact fingers are totally overrated compared to freedom. 

He gets a piece of mirror out and drops the frame on his lap to keep from making enough noise to alert someone to his awesome and daring escape. The cutting is slow since the rope is apparently wound with adamantium, and his fingers might not actively work once he’s done, but the rope _does_ start to separate.

After what feels like an entire lifetime, but is probably about fifteen minutes, Stiles is finally free. He gets up, places the mirror frame on the washer and clutches the mirror fragment in his left hand, since his right is basically useless at this point. He’s not thinking about that, though—no, he’s looking to the future, where there is definitely freedom and possibly blowjobs for how awesome he is.

There’s really nowhere to go but up, so Stiles takes the creepy stairs, going as slowly as possible so he doesn’t make the wood creak. He’s halfway up the stairs, trying to figure out how he’s going to bust down a door that’s probably locked from the outside when said door flies open, smashing back against the wall.

Stiles lets out what is definitely a manly war-whoop and is not even a little bit like the scream of a twelve-year-old girl walking into a spider web.

“What the fuck!” he shouts when he sees who it actually is. “What are you even _doing_ here?”

Derek scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. His chest which is bare and totally covered in blood, _what the fuck_. “Did you miss the part where you were captured by ghouls who were going to eat you for dessert?”

“Uh, did you miss the part where I was already rescuing myself?” Stiles snipes back, motioning to himself and his obvious freeness.

Derek opens his mouth to say something but stops abruptly, inhaling. “You’re bleeding. What happened?” He comes down the six steps between them and grabs Stiles hands, holding them up to inspect the damage.

His left one isn’t as bloody as the right, but it’s not great, since he sort of gripped the mirror when Derek scared the shit out of him before dropping it somewhere between the slats in the stairs. “Part of the great escape. Eggs had to be cracked to make the omelet. Other metaphor that describes this situation,” Stiles says, frowning at the way Derek runs his thumb around the edges of the wounds carefully, like he’s trying not to hurt Stiles.

“Stupid,” Derek says softly, moving his grip down to Stiles’ wrists. He’s holding him tightly, securely and when he looks up to Stiles’ face, he doesn’t look as constipated as usual. “You should have just waited. I was coming.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it. Frowns. “How was I supposed to know that?”

Derek rolls his eyes, starts to walk back up the stairs, but he’s still got one of Stiles’ wrists in his grip. “Because I’ll always come. You’re pack. Obviously.”

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. He’s pack. He’s pack? “You mean you’ll always come because you loooove me,” he says, poking at Derek’s back with his less-injured fingers. He draws a smiley face in the blood because what the fuck, when in Rome and all that. He pauses for a second, then shrugs and underneath writes WASH ME with four exclamation points. “I knew you were a gooey marshmallow underneath all that weird steroid muscle. Ha ha, you have feelings. Sour wolf has _feelings_.”

Derek makes a noise like he’s slowly dying, but he doesn’t deny it, and he doesn’t let go of Stiles’ wrist the whole way to Deaton’s. 

(He even lets Stiles wear his comically oversized boots since his shoes are nowhere to be found.

Score.)


End file.
